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CENTURY 



|gMiiM«ag-yAiitiiaail^ 



?n WILLIAM LYON PHELPS 



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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



Cbc Pure (SolD of 
Binmzntb Centutp Literature 



Crt)e DQure GolD of 

Xltneteent!) CCentury 

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Cbomas p. Crotoell & Co. 



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COPYRIGHT, 1907, BY THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO. 
PUBLISHED SEPTEMBER, 1907 




j Two Oooies Hacelved 
A'JG 3 i90f 

CLASS '4. XKc„ Me, 

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D. B. UPDIKE, THE MERRYMOUNT PRESS, BOSTON 



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Contents; 



PAGE 



THE POETS 3 

KEATS 4 

WORDSWORTH 6 

BROWNING 9 

BYRON 13 

SHELLEY 15 

TENNYSON ^ 1 7 

OTHER POETS 19 

THE MASTERS OF PROSE 20 

STEVENSON 21 

DICKENS 23 

THACKERAY 25 

JANE AUSTEN 27 

GEORGE ELIOT 28 

HARDY 30 

CARLYLE 32 

34 



pttfact 

THIS little book, which in its first 
form was a contribution to a periodi- 
cal, and which has now been completely 
revised and almost completely rewritten, 
is an attempt to appraise and assay the 
precious material in the literary output of 
the nineteenth century. I have confined 
myself entirely to British produ6lion; and 
I have endeavoured to be as brief as is con- 
sistent with the form of a literary essay. 

w. L. p. 

Tale University, 22 O^arch, 1907 



Cbe pure ©oID of 
iSineteentb Cemutg Literature 



Cbe pure ©olD of 
jSiueteent^ Century JLftemture 

♦ » 

THERE is only one period of Eng- 
lish literature that can compare in 
creative adivity with the nineteenth cen- 
tury, and that is the Elizabethan. Domi- 
nated by the supreme literary genius of 
the world, glorified by an array of drama- 
tists whose combined work outshines the 
Hellenic stage, the Elizabethan era may 
perhaps be called the greatest period of 
the greatest literature on the planet. But 
with the exception of the mighty names 
of Bacon and Spenser, the age of the Vir- 
gin Queen found its chief expression in 
the drama; while the age of Vidoria be- 
wilders the critic fully as much by the 
splendid variety of its literary produftion 
as by its extraordinary excellence. Poetry, 
fiaion, and criticism,— in these three 

3 



I&0dt0 great departments the last century reveals 
masters. Let us consider some of these. 

WHILE the nineteenth century 
was yet in its first quarter, Eng- 
lish literature suffered a terrible loss, — a 
loss that, as our perspective grows clearer, 
seems ever more poignant. This was the 
premature death of John Keats. Dying at 
the age of twenty-five, before most men 
of genius have done mature work, Keats 
left behind him a small number of poems 
that have given him an undisputed place 
in the front rank of English poets. Even 
as it is, his reputation is growing so rapidly 
that the critics of the year Two Thou- 
sand may place him as the first poet of 
the nineteenth century. He was born in 
the same year with Carlyle. Had he lived 
one-half so long as the great Scotsman, he 
might have surpassed all other British 
poets except Shakspere ; for he had to a 
supreme degree the divine gift of poetic 
4 



expression : none of his followers or sue- IBicaK 
cessors, not even his chief legatee, Ten- 
nyson, equalled him in this respeft: the 
Ode on a Grecian Urn^ Ode to a Nightin- 
gale^ The Eve of St. Agnes ^ Hyperion^ — 
these show a complete mastery of diftion 
that no other English poets except Shak- 
spere and Milton possessed. And the won- 
derful thing about the man is that he de- 
veloped with such astonishing speed; nor 
was his growth unhealthy, tainted with 
the germs of disease, like his suffering 
frame. The glow on his immortal verses is 
not the heftic flush of sickness, but the 
radiance of spiritual health. No one can 
read his remarkable Letters and fail to see 
how steady was his intellectual advance; 
how clearly he recognized his own powers, 
and the proper way to use them ; how 
noble was his ideal in poetry, and how 
gladly he would sacrifice everything in 
its pursuit. Of all the "great spirits that 
on earth were sojourning" Keats was the 
most purely a poet. His poems belong to 

5 



92J0tDS^ no age, no country, and no creed. Poli- 
wOttt) tics and religion had no real interest for 
him, as his poems and letters plainly show. 
While other poets filled their pages with 
allusions to political and moral issues, 
Keats wrote about Greek vases, night- 
ingales, and romantic legends. Who can 
say what masterpieces this man would 
have produced had he lived to middle 
age ? All we know is that they would have 
been masterpieces, and in all probability 
would have surpassed most of what is now 
included in his works. 

"My poet holds the future fast, 
Accepts the coming ages' duty, 
Their present for this past." 

IN addition to the name of Keats, the 
nineteenth century can show five oth- 
er poets, who now seem to have a fixed 
place in the first rank. These are Words- 
worth, Byron, Shelley, Tennyson, and 
Browning. The first and last are prophets 
6 



as well as poets, — each of the two has a 22JOtII0= 
right to the name Fates as well as Poeta. ttlOttu 
They wrote many beautiful poems, but 
in their marvellous melodies we hear the 
voice of a prophetic mission. It is unfor- 
tunately true to say, in estimating the 
value of Wordsworth's poetic produftion, 
that his high reputation rests on about 
one-third of his total output, the bulky 
remainder being mostly chaff. But when 
his sublime moods become articulate, he 
appeals to thoughtful readers irresistibly, 
and is by many critics of to-day given the 
third place in English poetry, immedi- 
ately after Milton ; for Wordsworth is 
our great spiritual interpreter of nature. 
In this field he has never had an equal 
among English writers, and but one suc- 
cessful rival in the world, — his great con- 
temporary, Goethe. His view of nature 
is of course a modern one, a view cur- 
tained even to Shakspere and Milton, for 
the eyes of humanity grow sharp by time 
and use. Shakspere could no more have 

7 



221OtD0' written the T^intern Abbey lines than he 
toOttu could have travelled from Stratford to 
London in an express train. Wordsv^orth 
regarded nature as in some mysterious way 
alive^ spiritual and immaterial, and able 
to teach all lessons that mankind needed 
to learn. The funftion of the poet is to 
discover these truths, often hidden from 
the wise and prudent, and reveal them to 
his fellows. We need not seek here to an- 
alyze his interpretations : it has been done 
by many a prose critic, and its essence 
has been poetically expressed in a final 
form by Matthew Arnold and by Wil- 
liam Watson, whose extraordinary poem, 
Wordsworth! s Grave ^ is worthy of the mas- 
ter it portrays : 

"From Shelley's dazzling glow or thunderous 
haze, 
From Byron's tempest-anger, tempest-mirth, 
Men turned to thee and found — not blast and 
blaze, 
Tumult of tottering heavens, but peace on 
earth." 

Wordsworth drew from nature the les- 
8 



sons of calm and rest, and no century ever T5r0ton= 
needed him more than the turbulent nine- ^^S 
teenth. In a striking passage in his Auto- 
iiograp/iy, ]ohn Stuart Mill confesses that 
Wordsworth brought him from darkness 
to light, and no greater tribute to the poet's 
power was ever paid than by this " logic- 
chopping engine:" 

" I seemed to draw from a source of in- 
wardjoy, of sympathetic and imaginative 
pleasure, which could be shared in by all 
human beings. . . . I seemed to learn what 
would be the perennial sources of happi- 
ness. ... I felt myself at once better and 
happier." 

THE last one of the giant race to 
make his appearance was Robert 
Browning. This unique figure has a 
double claim on our attention. Of all 
British poets he is the most truly origi- 
nal. After his boyhood he never came 
under the influence of his predecessors or 

9 



TBtOtori' contemporaries, but struck out into en- 
*^ff tirely unbroken paths, in which his read- 

ers follow with security and delight. He 
wrote steadily for thirty years to a public 
which remained stolidly antagonistic; but 
he forced them finally into a complete 
acknowledgement of his genius. Besides 
his astonishing intelledlual vigour and 
strange newness of expression, it is now 
commonly agreed that in the width of 
his sympathies, and in his analysis of all 
phases of human life and charafler, he has 
passed all other English poets except 
' Shakspere. He is the "subtle assertor of 
the soul in song." As a psychologist in 
verse he towers over all other writers of 
his century. 

"Since Chaucer was alive and hale 
No man has walked along our roads with step 
So a6live, so enquiring eye, or tongue 
So varied in discourse." 

His resonant, triumphant voice drowns 
the chorus of lamentation sung by nine- 
teenth century poets all over the world. 



The familiar note of yearning and vain 16t0ton= 
regret was not in his register. His creed ^^ff 
was positive, and is summed up in the 
conclusion of his first poem, Pauline: 
"I believe in God and truth 
And love." 

He was not afraid to be an unflinching 
optimist at exaftly the time when pes- 
simism was most fashionable. His op- 
timism is more encouraging and stimu- 
lating than that of Emerson, because 
Browning clearly sees and recognizes the 
dark side of life. What he set forth in 
Paracelsus he maintained stoutly to the 
end, — the necessity of imperfeftion, — 
nay, the joy and glory of it. For imperfec- 
tion is necessarily associated with progress 
and development, and the stumbling- 
block becomes the soul's stepping-stone. 
His treatment of religious doubt, which 
casts so deep a shadow over the work 
of his contemporaries, is a case in point. 
Were there no doubt, were the future 
life patent, there could be no real virtue. 

II 



TBtOtolT' Virtue lies in the struggle, not in calm, 
**^S submissive acquiescence. 

"I count life just a stuff 
To try the souFs strength on, educe the man." 

Everything in life can be made service- 
able to the man strong in unselfishness, 
the man of faith and ideals. Perhaps the 
limitless extent of his optimism is shown 
best by his similitudes. He loves to take 
a proverb which reveals the unconscious 
pessimism of humanity, like "No rose 
without its thorn," and twist it into a 
source of comfort. In the speech of the 
Pope in 'The Ring and the Book^ — a speech 
that in some respefts indicates the high- 
water mark of nineteenth century poetry, 
— we find this passage, which it is safe 
to say no one but Browning would have 
written : ,,^, . 

"bo a thorn 
Comes to the aid of and completes the rose — 
Courage to-wit, no woman's gift nor priest's." 

Browning is not a sedative : he is a tonic. 
Of all the great thought-leaders of the 
century, none is more thrilling, more 

12 



stimulating, and more encouraging in the IBgtOU 
call to manhood. 

TBtron 

FEW literary men have had a greater 
intelleftual endowment than Lord 
Byron. His genius has seldom been se- 
riously doubted, and in fields of expres- 
sion so far apart as song and satire he 
ranks with the masters. His keen wit and 
his lyrical gift are alike remarkable. Not 
many are the instances where a writer has 
in his own lifetime enjoyed a reputation 
and influence such as his. He is one of 
the greatest of germinal poets. With 
the exception of Jean Jacques Rousseau, 
whose strange figure always appears un- 
der every literary movement of modern 
times, Byron has perhaps influenced Con- 
tinental letters more than any English- 
man since his death. From Pushkin in 
the north to the Italians in the south, 
poetry in all languages was tinged with 
Byron's romantic melancholy. From the 

13 



TBptOn greatest writer of the modern epoch — 
Goethe — down to the small fry who 
merely aft as literary thermometers, we 
see plainly indicated the presence of the 
great Spoiled Child. The spell of his 
lovely melody is still potent, but his work 
has one fatal taint, — insincerity. The 
world did not need Byron's example to 
prove that one may be a great poet with- 
out being a good man. But the lack of 
moral values is apt to prevent one from 
realizing his highest possibilities as an 
artist. That Byron accomplished at times 
first-class work, that he was a first-class 
poet, all unprejudiced critics must admit; 
but if he had maintained an attitude to- 
ward his art like that of Tennyson, — if, in 
short, he had behaved like a responsible 
person, there would have been less wasted 
energy in his productions, and his influ- 
ence would have been deeper and more 
lasting. The great sin in his life is not his 
sensual and other irregularities : it is the 
use he made of his marvellous gifts. He 



chose to write, not like a poet, but "like ©ftClICg 
a gentleman/* With him poetry was not 
a sacred calling, not even an art : it was 
an accomplishment, like swimming and 
shooting. His work accordingly suffers. 
There is always the doubt of his sincer- 
ity : in his finest frenzies there is some- 
thing oi tht poseur, 

ALTHOUGH Shelley died at the 
jLjL. age of twenty-nine, he had appar- 
ently reached his full development. His 
death was a great loss to English litera- 
ture, but not nearly so severe as that of 
Keats. It is doubtful if Shelley would ever 
have excelled his previous performances, 
which, to be sure, are splendid enough 
to make his position in English poetry 
unassailable. What is immediately notice- 
able in his work is the soaring quality of 
his imagination. Some genuine poets have 
their feet on the earth, like Ben Jonson 
and Dryden; some are "swimmers in 

15 



@l)0ll0g the atmosphere ;'' but Shelley leaves the 
earth far behind, and sweeps away into 
the aether. Browning's epithet was a 
happy one, — Sun-treader , Shelley is the 
eagle of poetry, whose pinions love thin 
air, and whose eyes look into the sun. He 
calls to us from lonely heights above the 
clouds, and we cannot always follow him, 
for we cannot breathe such rarefied air. 
... As a lyrist and song-writer, he is 
second only to Shakspere. His lyrics are 
ideals of what true lyrics should be, the 
expression of one mood in perfefl: song. 
Like his contemporary Keats, he made 
no important contribution to the thought 
of the age, but he left a priceless legacy 
of immortal forms of verse. His reputa- 
tion has increased rather than diminished 
with the passage of time, and we see now 
that in his own field his followers have 
not reached him. 

"Thou art gone from us; years go by and Spring 
Gladdens and the young earth is beautiful, 
Yet thy songs come not ; other bards arise, 
But none like thee." 

i6 



THE most representative poet of 
the nineteenth century, the laureate 
in fa6l as well as in name, is of course 
Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Living as he did 
in every decade of the century, his is not 
only its clearest singing voice, but the 
most faithful expression of its ideas. Ten- 
nyson was an all-around poet, succeeding 
in every department of poetry except the 
drama. There his lack of originality and 
of passion caused him to make almost a 
complete failure ; for, in the truest sense 
of the word, Tennyson was not an ori- 
ginal man ; his mind, as reflected in his 
verse and particularly in the more inti- 
mate Memoir by his son, seems rather 
narrow and commonplace. He was pro- 
foundly interested in the great religious, 
moral, political, social, and scientific pro- 
blems of his time ; but he translated in- 
to verse the thoughts of others, instead 
of making any distinfl: contribution of 

17 



Ccnng- his own. Like many writers, he stated 
^^^ problems rather than solved them. And 
underneath his clear and beautiful ex- 
position, we find no deeply original or 
markedly individual point of view, as in 
A Death in the Desert or Bishop Bloug- 
rams Apology, But one of the truest func- 
tions of the poet is to represent clearly, to 
be the spokesman for his age ; and no one 
ever lived more fully up to this ideal than 
Tennyson. Praflically all of the philoso- 
phical, scientific, and political thought of 
the nineteenth century may be found in 
his work, usually expressed in almost per- 
fe6l forms of verse ; for Tennyson was a 
consummate artist. In epic, descriptive, 
narrative, and lyrical poetry he is now 
generally regarded as the foremost man 
of his epoch. Historically he is the child 
of Keats, and while perhaps he never 
wrote any one poem so perfeft as the 
best produ6lions of his master, he wrote 
so large an amount of admirable poetry 
that he exercised in his day an enormous 
i8 



influence, not merely over hundreds of ©tftCt 
thousands of readers, but over all con- IPOCtS 
temporary poets except Brov^ning. And 
the loyal friendship of these two men is 
one of the beautiful things in the annals 
of literature, — as beautiful as the noble- 
ness and purity of their lives. 

BESIDES the poets of the first rank 
enumerated above, a considerable 
number of English writers have made 
permanent additions to poetical literature. 
Perhaps Coleridge and Mrs. Browning 
ought to be included in the first class : 
if that be so, the latter is the only wo- - 
man who has a good claim to so exalted 
a position. In view of the fafl: that wo- 
men have always loved and appreciated 
poetry, and that so prodigious a number 
of them have essayed poetic composition, 
the loneliness of Mrs. Browning is sin- 
gular enough. Other poets of the cen- 

19 



CftC tury whose work will endure are Ros- 

00a0tet0 setti, Matthew Arnold, Scott, andpossibly 
^ Swinburne, though the latter's fame ap- 

pears to be already waning. Clough and 
Landor wrote some poems that will never 
be forgotten, and many writers have pro- 
duced a few things that the world will 
not willingly let die. As for Kipling and 
Stephen Phillips, their best works may yet 
be unwritten. Let us hope, at any rate, 
that they may ultimately belong to the 
twentieth rather than to the nineteenth 
century. 

Ci^e ^pajsterjs of pto^t 

ENGLAND'S contribution to prose 
fiftion during the nineteenth cen- 
tury was splendid. Novelists of the first 
rank are Scott, Jane Austen, Dickens, 
Thackeray, George Eliot, Stevenson; and 
to this roll of honour time will probably 
add the name of Thomas Hardy. In the 
early years of the century, Sir Walter 
looms up in colossal proportions. His style 
20 



was usually careless and often slipshod. @t0tiCn= 
He never produced a flawless masterpiece, ^^" 
and many of his produftions cannot pos- 
sibly be called works of art. But in power 
of invention he was a giant ; he is one 
of the greatest of all literary athletes. His 
superabundant vitality breathed into his 
scenes of aftion and into his men and wo- 
men the very breath of life. When we 
remember that in three successive years 
he produced T^he Heart of Midlothian^ 'The 
Bride of Lammermoor^ and Ivanhoe^ we need 
not wonder that he has never been de- 
throned. He remains the king of English 
Romanticists. 

WITH the brilliant exception of 
Henry Esmond^ no English ro- 
mances successfully challenged the best 
books of Walter Scott until, toward the 
end of the century, another Scotsman 
charmed the world with his tales of the 
heather and the sea, — Robert Louis Ste- 

21 



©tCtiCn- venson. The stories of this sprightly inva- 
^^n lid, written with an art unknown to Scott, 

are still in the first flush of their fame. His 
supreme achievement was to show that 
a book might be crammed with thrilling 
adventures, and yet reveal profound and 
acute analysis of chara6ter, and be adorned 
with all the graces of a beautiful literary 
style. The mere story holds us in breath- 
less suspense ; but even in the most stir- 
ring moments the manner of the narra- 
tor never loses its distin6tion. He was a 
poet, a dramatist, an essayist, and a nov- 
elist; but his works of fiftion, owing to 
their peculiar brightness and charm, have 
overshadowed his other writings. He had 
the rather unusual combination of the 
artist and the moralist, but he was not pri- 
marily a moral teacher. The virtue of his 
tales consists in their wholesome ethical 
quality, in their solid health. And apart 
from the intrinsic value of his books, 
Stevenson will in the future occupy a 
large place in the history of English fic- 

22 



tion, for his influence on other writers J)icbCnS 
was exceedingly strong. The paradox is 
that from this sick man's chamber came 
the fresh, life-giving breeze that swept 
away the microbes from contemporary 
literature. Fresh air is often better for the 
soul than the swinging of the priest's cen- 
ser. At a time when the school of natural- 
ism was at its climax, Stevenson opened 
the windows. The oppressive sultriness 
vanished. And what he accomplished for 
his age, he will always accomplish for 
the individual. For the morbid and un- 
healthy period of adolescence, his books 
are more healthful than many didaftic 
treatises. 

Mtum 

IN fiflion, Dickens and Thackeray are 
the twin giants of the Vidtorian age, 
as Tennyson and Browning are in poetry. 
Their reputation is secure. It is true that 
a reaction against Dickens set in some 
time ago, but it was a movement both 

23 



E)iCfeCnS futile and ephemeral. Tried by the most 
cruel of all tests, the test of time, which 
has taken away some of the glitter and 
tinsel from his name, we find the pure 
gold more bright than ever. Indeed, if 
we may judge by the enormous sales of 
his books in this present year (1907) and 
by the multiplication of serious critical 
works on his life and art, his power over 
humanity is greater than ever. What 
would the history of nineteenth century 
fiftion have been without him ? It is true 
that there are many things in his novels 
which repel fastidious readers. His ten- 
dency to make stump speeches in the 
midst of his narrative, his frequent de- 
scent to melodrama, and his unpleasantly 
sentimental pathos often jar harshly on 
sensitive minds. But the common people 
heard him gladly. He brought sunshine 
into thousands of shadowed hearts. His 
abounding humour, his overflowing hu- 
man sympathy, and his immortal carica- 
tures sprang from a vital force that age 
24 



cannot wither nor custom stale. Pickwick Cb^Ck^ 
Papers^ Bleak House ^ David Copperjield^ — xXViY, 
can time lessen the greatness of such 
mighty encyclopaedias of life? 



THACKERAY^S reputation has ne- 
ver been bitterly assailed like that 
of his great contemporary, possibly be- 
cause the number of his readers was, and 
is, not nearly so large. Every passing year 
finds his name brighter, the circle of his 
thoughtful admirers wider, and his posi- 
tion in English literature firmer. In the 
history of English fidlion perhaps no one 
has a better claim to first place. The charge 
of snobbery and cynicism, made so often 
against his personal chara6ter in his life- 
time, is now seen to have no foundation. 
It is curious that many readers still call 
his books cynical, for his brilliant pages 
constantly reveal two qualities wholly in- 
compatible with cynicism, — sympathy 

25 



CbBCk' and enthusiasm. His sympathy with hu- 
^^^2 manity, though not so demonstratively 
expressed as that of Dickens, was fully as 
keen. Indeed, the chief defeat in his writ- 
ings comes from a nature exaftly the oppo- 
site of the cynic's, — that of the preacher. 
Like so many Englishmen, he is not con- 
tent to let his creations speak for them- 
selves, like the lilies of the field; in the 
most thrilling point of the drama he must 
forget the role of impersonality and don 
the preacher's vestments. This unfortu- 
nate mannerism makes T^he Newcomes^ in 
spite of its great death scene, irritating to 
many readers and in places almost unen- 
durable. But at its best Thackeray's art 
is impeccable. Vanity Fair^ with its un- 
forgettable charadlers, and Henry Esmond^ 
the best historical romance in the lan- 
guage, are books that no other man could 
have written ; and if anything may be 
called the pure gold of literature, it is 
surely such works as these. 



26 



JANE AUSTEN and George Eliot 
are the only women novelists of the 
century who may unhesitatingly be as- 
signed to the first class. In her time Miss 
Austen's novels were as completely over- 
shadowed by the mighty works of Walter 
Scott as her physical strength would have 
been by his robust masculine vigour. But 
she was one of those rare individuals who 
are content to work for the sake of the work 
alone. "Art for art's sake," a proverb as 
grievously mishandled as Honi soit^ is pe- 
culiarly applicable to the novels of this 
extraordinary maiden. She created mas- 
terpiece after masterpiece, seeking no re- 
cognition and finding little, but working 
with no less painstaking art. She could 
not have written books like Pride and 
Prejudice Without realizing to some extent 
their solid worth; but she would indeed 
have been amazed had she received a re- 
velation of her twentieth century fame. 

27 



©COtp Time has redeemed and paid in full all 
diOt her drafts upon the future, and she pos- 
sesses to-day a wealth of reputation which 
cannot be stolen by aspiring rivals nor 
corrupted by the rust of years. In her 
books the style is so perfedly adapted 
to the matter that to the uninitiated it 
often seems no style at all. It is the final 
triumph of art, — the exa6t counterfeit of 
nature. Never progressing into strange 
or forbidden territory, never resorting to 
adventure or excitement, her books hold 
our attention by their likeness to life. 
She succeeded to a high degree in pro- 
ducing the illusion which is the essence 
of all great art: we do not feel that her 
persons are creatures of the imagination; 
they rather seem to belong among our 
intimate acquaintances. 



G 



EORGE ELIOT had the good 
fortune to see her literary children 
28 



receive the warm welcome they so richly ©0OWC 
deserved. Indeed, it is possible that the ©iOt 
number of her readers is not quite so large 
to-day as it was in her declining years. 
If this be true, it is a lamentable fa6l, prob- 
ably due in part to the recent rage for 
romanticism, and in part also because her 
career was something of an anticlimax. 
She drifted away from the great currents 
of art toward the dreary doldrums of 
philosophy and sociology. With the pos- 
sible exception of Mrs. Browning, she 
had perhaps the most powerful feminine 
intelle6t among the English of the cen- 
tury, and her learning sometimes hin- 
dered rather than helped her progress. 
She was an intensely serious woman, and 
she seemed to forget that nothing is more 
truly serious than a great portrayal of life 
artistically and reverently made. Her best 
books were her first: as time advances. 
Scenes of Clerical Ltfe^ Adam Bede^ The 
Mill on the Floss stand out supreme, while 
Daniel Deronda is slowly falling under its 

29 



^atDg own weight. We may be sure, no matter 
what the caprices and fluftuations of lit- 
erary fashions may be, that George Eliot 
will never be forgotten, and that the dust 
will never accumulate on her noble vol- 
umes. Such wisdom as hers is too precious 
to be long neglefled; and in every age 
there will be discriminating readers, who, 
weary of the showiness that so often ac- 
companies superjficiality, will turn to her 
rich pages and find life indeed. 

HOSTS of other novelists of the cen- 
tury might be mentioned if there 
were space. We are looking only at the 
foremost names. Among living novelists, 
Thomas Hardy stands easily first. His 
work during thirty years, always con- 
scientious if sometimes mistaken, repre- 
sents a level of excellence that none of 
his contemporaries, not even the erratic 
and brilliant Meredith, can equal. The 
30 



rustic cackle of his bourg drowns the l^atDg 
murmur of the world, which stops to 
hear the human comedy played, ever old 
and ever new, in incomparable Wessex. 
He is the great pessimist of our age, as 
Stevenson was its joyous optimist. But 
his pessimism is not the result of a mind 
out of tune, nor is it flavoured with the 
gall of the cynic. His pessimism rises 
from an almost abnormal sympathy with 
humanity. The depths of tenderness in 
this man are stirred by the speftacle of 
hideous suffering in which he imagines 
all persons but himself to live and move 
and have their being. He will, therefore, 
be the spokesman for humanity's pain. 
He will speak for the chained Prome- 
theus, and call the world to witness its 
own sorrow and revise its creed of a loving 
Divinity. His pessimism, then, is sympa- 
thetic and temperamental: he cannot see 
life in any other way. But the shadow 
of his works is lightened by a sense of 
humour deliciously keen and true. His 

31 



CatlgIC Shaksperlan shepherds touch the springs 
of loving laughter in our hearts, and 
make an irresistible appeal by their un- 
worldly harmlessness. Furthermore his 
books are artistic wholes, living organ- 
isms, examples of what novels should be. 
Such a story as 'The Return of the Native 
is entirely beyond the power of most con- 
temporary writers. 



Candle 

IN our review of the century we are 
purposely omitting everything but 
pure literature. Of historical, scientific, 
theological, political, and religious writ- 
ers there have been enough and to spare: 
we are confining ourselves to men of let- 
ters. Outside of the fields of poetry and 
the novel, the greatest figure of the cen- 
tury is unquestionably Thomas Carlyle. 
His influence was so mighty that even 
if there should be a public conflagration 
of every one of his books, his spirit would 
32 



still be a potent force; for he impressed CatlgIC 
himself so deeply upon the men of the 
fifties and sixties that he has become a 
part of the inheritance of later genera- 
tions. His trumpet call to duty is still 
ringing in our ears ; and our hearts are 
renewed within us as we remember his 
familiar watchwords. This grim prophet, 
who looked upon the so-called progress 
of the age with gloomy eyes, might have 
seen some hope in the fafl: that the people 
of the very age he despised, listened most 
eagerly to his teachings. The more vio- 
lently he flogged them, the more keenly 
they seemed to enjoy the scourge. And 
the reason for this is plain. Wholly apart 
from his tremendous force and power for 
righteousness, he was one of the greatest 
literary artists that England has ever pro- 
duced. As a portrait-painter his accuracy 
is thrilling; in depicting the grotesque 
he has no equal among the moderns; and 
his humour, always grim, is ever spon- 
taneous and seizes us with contagious 

33 



JRU0fem, force. He is never dull, and to read him 

00acau^ is a perpetual delight. In his case the 

j3Dtt)0t0 ^^y^^ ^^^ certainly the man; and he seems 

destined to rank in a place all by himself. 



RUSKIN also spoke out loud and 
bold, but too often he was hoarse. 
He performed an inestimable service for 
his century by revealing to English Phi- 
listines the beauties and glories of art. He 
is still an inspiration to many, but his 
reputation is surely diminishing. That no 
one was ever written down except by 
himself is as true now as on the day when 
it was first spoken; and the wild inco- 
herent ravings of Ruskin have not only 
raised a laugh among the unskilful, but 
have made the judicious grieve. Had he 
confined his sphere to matters on which 
he was an acknowledged authority, he 
would stand out to-day much clearer 
than is aftually the case. How strangely 
34 



different is the position of Charles Lamb ! JRuSfeitl, 
Without a tithe of Ruskin's moral ear- ^^CaU- 
nestness, he had such delightful amenity, gr^figrg 
such wideness of mercy, and so delicate 
and pervasive humour that it is possible 
his v^orks will be read with pleasure after 
Ruskin has become merely a name. Over 
the pages of the Essays of E/ia hovers an 
immortal charm. 

Landor's stately prose has a small but 
select circle of admirers, and some of his 
work is gold. However, he seems destined 
in another hundred years to join the il- 
lustrious dead whose names are familiar 
to all students of literary history, but 
whom nobody reads. That is already the 
case with Southey, — whose verse was not 
mentioned in the review of the poets, 
simply because readers have decided to 
let him alone, — a man who still has a 
great fame, but no friends — not even an 
enemy. The gentle Leigh Hunt is also 
receding, but for a different reason: he 
is not dull, but faint. Many other once 

3S 



JRU0Wn, noted authors may be classed in either 
Q^acaU' or both of these two groups. 
ff)th£rs ^^ ^^^ literary critics of the century, 
Coleridge remains unsurpassed. He is at 
once the most profound and the most 
subtle. Matthew Arnold enjoyed an enor- 
mous vogue, and at times seemed to ap- 
proach the chair of literary dictator, — 
vacant since the death of Dr. Johnson. 
But he did not reach it, and he could not 
have filled it. He was an excellent ex- 
ample of the farthest limit attainable by 
culture, refinement, and real talent un- 
accompanied by genius. The reputation 
of Macaulay sagged fearfully some thirty 
years ago, till it seemed about to part in 
twain. Lately there has been a reaction in 
his favour, and he will remain as a model 
of one form of literary art. It may be that 
he belongs to rhetoric rather than to lit- 
erature. There are, at any rate, few mo- 
dern writers better worth studying for 
purposes of exposition or dialeftic. The 
astonishing vigour and clarity of his Ian- 

36 



guage, the martial movement of his spir- lRU0bin, 
ited sentences, his sound common-sense, ^^^^l^' 
and a certain core of health will keep g^jfj^rg 
much of his work alive. He represents 
the typical educated Englishman, both 
in his strong qualities and in his uncon- 
querable prejudices; as we read him, he 
produces the peculiar illusion of being 
yet in the land of the living. We seem to 
see his face and to hear his voice. 



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